A Story Worth Telling
by OccasionallyBreathtaking
Summary: Hermione tells her ailing mother the story of what happened when she fell back in time, who she met on her adventures, and who she loved.
1. Chapter One

**19 August 2014**

This is a complete rewrite of a story I published here roundabout four years ago. For those of you who were fans of_ Looking Back,_ this new edition will be better than ever.

I own nothing you recognize from the Harry Potter books or films.

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_It surprised Hermione every single year when she entered St. Eunice's Hospice Care Facility to find that the holiday spirit was nearly as strong as it was on the streets outside. During most of the year, St. Eunice's was plagued with the unfortunate pall of illness and death that obviously came with the territory of caring for the ill and dying._

_During the two weeks surrounding the Christmas holiday, however, there were trees decorated with strands of bright, colored lights and strings of popcorn to be found around every corner. Shiny tinsel adorned every doorway, and the nurses and staff passed around cups of eggnog and spiced cocoa._

_The holiday spirit almost entirely eliminated the despair of oncoming death for the residents of the hospice, but in some doorways, the sadness lingered. Most often, it was for those who had no loved ones left to visit them. Most often, it was those who were truly, truly alone._

_"Hermione," came a voice from behind Hermione, who turned to see a nurse beaming at her, holding a tray of still-steaming food. "Happy holidays, my dear."_

_"Happy holidays, Betty," Hermione returned, smiling. "How are you? How is your family?"_

_Betty gave a little half shrug and a wry shake of her head. "Jeremy's home with the twins; they've caught head colds again this year. But Alan, my youngest, has decided to take up piano. Says he's going to be the next great composer, but he's still learning the notes." She sighed fondly. "Anyway, you must be here to see her. I'm actually headed there now. She wasn't hungry earlier, when everyone else ate lunch, so I'm going to give it another shot now."_

_Hermione followed Betty's lead into a room at the end of the hallway. She was pleased to see that someone had decorated this room, too, with a strand of lights lining the doorway and a sprig of mistletoe hanging from the jamb._

_"Helene?" Betty said brightly, setting the tray upon the bedside table. "You've a visitor, dear. Take a look."_

_Hermione stepped forward, loosening her scarf and smiling down at the woman lying up against the pillows. "Hi, Mum."_

_Helene Granger looked up at Hermione in surprise. "'Mum?'" she repeated. "Are you my daughter?"_

_This fazed Hermione not a wink. It had been years since her mother had been able to recognize her on the spot. When Helene was having a good day, and did recognize her daughter on sight, it was often short-lived._

_Of all the Muggle and magical advances in the area of medicine, there was still no cure, still no real treatment for Alzheimer's disease._

_"I'll leave you to it," Betty said, patting Hermione's shoulder comfortingly before heading out and shutting the door behind her._

_"Yes, Mum," Hermione said, in answer to Helene's bewilderment. "I'm your daughter. My name is Hermione Jean."_

_"Hermione Jean," Helene mused, looking Hermione over with a close eye. "That's a marvelous name. Tell me, since you're my daughter, was that my idea?"_

_Hermione smiled. "It was."_

_"Well, I have excellent taste," Helene declared. "If I do say so myself."_

_Hermione lifted the tray from the bedside table and set it gently across her mother's lap. "It's lunchtime, Mum. Time to eat what Betty brought for you."_

_"Oh, but I don't feel very hungry," Helene told her daughter. "Maybe later."_

_Hermione eyed her mother with a concerned eye. Helene had obviously lost weight since the last time Hermione had come to visit, and since it had only been a week, Hermione was rightly worried._

_"Let's make a deal," she said, knowing that whatever memory her mother had lost, there was a competitive spark in her that would never die away. "If you eat the lot, I'll tell you a story." Combined with Helene's inherent love of stories, Hermione was sure this would get her mother to eat._

_And Hermione was right. Helene sat up a little straighter and reached for her napkin. "Is it a love story? I do so enjoy love stories."_

_Hermione nodded. "It's also an adventure, Mum. About a witch and her friends."_

_"A witch?" exclaimed Helene . "Is she a good witch, or a bad witch?"_

_"She's a good witch," Hermione assured her mother, relieved when Helene started in on the chicken and rice. "A good witch just trying to make her way in the world, when something happens to her. Something she never expected in a thousand years would happen."_

_Helene looked up at her daughter, intrigued. "Sounds exciting, dear. Do go on."_

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"Come on, Hermione," complained Ron as he, Hermione, and Harry made their way from the groudns outside to the Gryffindor common room to gather their belongings. "The train'll be leaving soon. There's nothing left to study for."

"I'm just going to take one last look in the Dark Arts section," she told them in an undertone as they passed a group of subdued first year students. "I know there's something there that can help us find the Horcruxes. I know I've read the name before, but I just can't put my finger on it."

Harry, who'd been nearly silent since the declaration of his intent to hunt Voldemort and his Horcruxes minutes earlier, said irritably, "The answers aren't always going to be in a book, Hermione. It's not that easy."

"And when have too much reading and too much research ever been a detriment?" Hermione asked fiercely, frowning at them. "Maybe I won't find anything, but what if I do? And if I don't, what's the harm in trying?"

"Fine," Harry sighed wearily. "We won't stop you. Do what you like; we'll see you on the train."

Hermione watched as her two best friends continued on with the tide of other Gryffindor students on their way from Dumbledore's funeral.

She knew they weren't really upset with her; it was to be expected that emotions would be running high after such a day. Albus Dumbledore had been a great wizard and a great mentor for Harry. Without him, Hermione supposed she understood that Harry would be feeling especially vulnerable.

Hermione sighed and turned, heading down the hall toward the library. As she entered, there was a tightness in her throat and a heaviness to her heart. This was her favorite place in the whole world. She'd never felt safer or more at home than when she was here, searching and reading and learning.

And now, this would very likely be the last time she'd ever visit it. The last time she'd ever breathe in the familiar scents of old books and fresh quill ink that were distinctly Hogwarts. She had to admit to herself that she'd fallen victim to sentiment, that visiting the library one last time was as much a motivation for separating from her friends that afternoon as was finding information on Horcruxes.

Absently and by memory alone, Hermione found her way to the Dark Arts section of the library, heading up one of the aisles at random. She ran her fingers lightly over the spines of the books, most of them the familiar feel of aged leather with a light cover of dust.

No one much visited these books, and for good reason. Those who were eager to learn the Dark Arts were disappointed to find that these books held no directions for becoming a dark witch or wizard, and those who had no interest in being affiliated with the Dark Arts steered clear on principle.

Hermione had found herself exploring these aisles when she was a fourth year student. She spent most of the year pondering the choices of Peter Pettigrew, wondering what could possibly motivate him to betray his friends to their deaths. Those answers hadn't been in these books then, either, but her time here had helped Hermione to understand more fully the respect she felt for those who stood up against the Dark Arts, and those who practiced them.

She chose one of the books off a shelf at random, and recognized the title. The Darkness In Us, by Gamora Song. She must have read this one at some point in the last several years, but then again, Hermione had read so many books since coming to Hogwarts that it was sometimes hard to place a specific volume, even in her sharp, long memory.

"My, my, Granger, gotten quite brave, have we?"

Hermione turned quickly, seeing that Blaise Zabini had snuck up on her, and was standing quite close.

"What do you want, Zabini?" she snapped. "I don't have time for your nonsense."

Zabini's mouth crept upward in a sinister smile that transformed his face from his normally neutral, bored expression to one of cruel intent. "You'll have to make time, then, Mudblood."

Hermione's instincts rang in alarm, but she had little time to react, as Zabini shoved her back against the shelf. Her head snapped back against something hard; she thought absently that it must have been one of the shelf partitions as Zabini pulled out his wand, pointing it at her chest.

"The Muggle-lover Dumbledore is gone, now," he reminded her in a soft, deadly voice. "And so is that prat, Malfoy. He should have had us rid of you ages ago, but then again, he always was the weakest of us all, surname be damned."

"What is your point, Zabini?" Hermione ground out, hiding her fear with indignation.

"Don't come back to Hogwarts," he told her. "Simple as that. Stay away, and you might live a long, Muggle life. Return, and I'll make absolutely sure you don't live long enough to see the Sorting."

"Why should I be afraid of you, Zabini?" Hermione wondered, still clutching the book tightly. "You, who can barely perform a simple Switching Spell?"

Zabini smiled again, unfazed by the insult. "It's been a long year, Mudblood. I've been practicing, and my tutor has taught me some new things that these useless professors know nothing of." He chuckled darkly, sending a shiver down Hermione's spine. "He's quite pleased with my progress in the Dark Arts."

"Stay away from me," Hermione demanded, refusing to let herself be horrified by the fact that Blaise Zabini seemed to be apprentice to the Dark Lord himself. "Just leave me alone, Zabini." She thrust her hand into the pocket of her dress, her hands curling around her wand just as Zabini aimed a punch at her chest.

There was the dainty tinkle of breaking glass, and with a surprised "Oh," Hermione Granger disappeared.


	2. Chapter Two

**20 August 2014**

I own nothing from the wonderful world of Harry Potter that you recognize in this story.

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_"Her classmate went after her?" gasped Helene in astonishment. "What on earth could have possessed him to do so? This girl sounds delightful."_

_Hermione gave a soft laugh, shaking her head. "He was an evil wizard, who was learning to be evil from the darkest, evilest wizard of them all."_

_"Sneaking up on her, as well," Helene tutted. "No manners at all. Not sportsmanlike in any way."_

_"No, it certainly wasn't," Hermione agreed._

_"Well? What happened next?"_

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The world around Hermione had gone dark. Not the kind of dark that comes from turning out the lights before bed, but a profound kind of dark, deeper and more alienating than anything she'd ever before experienced. It was as though her eyes had gone completely, and with it all of her other senses.

Cut off from all sensation, Hermione began to panic. Was she dead? Is this what death truly felt like? Neither the heaven nor the hell she'd grown up imagining, but nothing. Nothing at all.

Just as she was overwhelmed with panicked despair, everything came back, all at once.

Her eyes were assaulted with a bright light, and she closed them immediately as they welled with tears of shock.

There was the stiff, scratchy feeling of sheets against her palms. She moved her hands slowly back and forth, taking in the sensation of the starchy cotton.

Then, there was the soft murmur of conversation. Hermione turned her head slightly to the left and opened her eyes slowly. Her vision was still a little blurry, but she could see the forms of several people, huddled together not fifteen feet from her bed.

Which was apparently in the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Hermione recognized the two neatly spaced rows of beds, the pleasant glow of the lanterns hanging from the ceiling, and the portrait of Newt Gossington, named the first Head Healer of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries in 1642, hanging on the wall over the double doors. She had spent quite enough time here during her second year at Hogwarts, recovering from that unfortunate incident involving Polyjuice Potion and hair from Milicent Bulstrode's cat, to know that there was a crack along the length of the ceiling that had come from an accidental explosion in the early eighties. A prank gone wrong, Madam Pomfrey had once told her, indignant disapproval at the incident still apparent in her voice.

When her vision finally cleared completely, Hermione struggled to sit upright, laying back against the pillows. Looking up, she searched the ceiling for that crack, hoping to be comforted by more familiar sights. She was surprised and confused to realize that the crack wasn't there - the ceiling was smooth and unblemished stone.

Her movement had caught the attention of the group conversing fifteen feet to her left, for their murmurs hushed to silence, and they all gathered around her bed.

"Welcome back," came the bemused voice of Albus Dumbledore, and Hermione blinked up at him stupidly.

"Pardon?" she croaked, and someone handed her a glass of water. She hadn't realized that she was desperately thirsty until just then, so she gulped back the water with great haste.

"Welcome back," Dumbledore repeated, a small smile apparent from behind his beard. "You've been asleep quite some time."

Hermione searched Dumbledore's face suspiciously. Not long ago, she'd attended this man's funeral. Something was horribly, terribly wrong.

"I am dead," she decided, her head flopping back against the pillows. "That just figures. Not even seventeen, and so many books left to read." She paused. "My parents are going to be so angry with me."

"You're not," announced the woman standing to her right. Hermione recognized her and the neatly pressed smock she wore - this was Madam Poppy Pomfrey, matron of the Hospital Wing who tended to ill and injured students. "Dead, my dear. You're not dead."

"'Course I am," Hermione scoffed, pointing up at Dumbledore. "Otherwise, how would..." She let her voice trail off when she saw a rather rumpled copy of the Daily Prophet sitting on her bedsisde table.

She snatched it up, reading the headline. _New Law to Stop Dragon Enthusiasts from Engaging in Gambling Over Hatching Eggs_. Preposterous. That law had been passed during the summer of 1977, according to Professor Binns.

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Is this from today?" she wondered.

"Yesterday," Dumbledore informed her. "I always seem to be a day behind with the Daily Prophet. I'm fairly certain the editor is playing a prank on me - and quite the prank, it is. To always be the last to know is certainly exasperating."

Hermione wasn't listening to any of this. She was staring at the date pronounced in small, italic script on the top of the front page. She was reading it over and over again, which was becoming difficult, as her hands were shaking more steadily intensely.

August the first, 1977.

Someone removed the newsprint from her trembling hands and set it aside. "My dear, are you quite alright?" asked Minerva McGonagall, peering down the length of the bed at Hermione. "You look as if you've had a fright."

"Not even possible," Hermione breathed, her eyes wide with horror.

Dumbledore turned to face Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall. "Please excuse us, ladies. I think it's time I had a conversation with the young woman."

Uncharacteristically, Madam Pomfrey didn't protest as McGonagall swept her out of the Hospital Wing, the large double doors closing with a groan behind them.

Dumbledore waved his wand once, and a squashy purple armchair appeared just behind him. He sat without glancing at it, his eyes trained on Hermione's shocked face.

"You don't belong here and now, do you?" he asked in a soft voice.

Hermione looked up to see him watching her with both concern and understanding written on his extraordinarily kind face. She noticed then, wryly, that his face was less lined than she had ever seen before. When she told him so, he chuckled, leaning back and folding his hands atop his knees.

"I figured as much," he told her serenely.

"You know, then," Hermione guessed. "Somehow, you know."

He pulled from the pocket of his robes the book Hermione had been clutching in the library that afternoon she was to be heading back home from Hogwarts, _The Darkness in Us_. "The publishing date for this book is July of 1984," Dumbledore informed her, setting the volume on Hermione's bedside table. "Either this is an incredibly elaborate trick, which seems highly unlikely, as you've been asleep for over two months, or you're not in the time and place you ought to be."

Hermione's eyes dropped to her hands, which were worrying each other. "I'm not where I ought to be," she replied in a soft voice, choosing to be horrified at the fact that she'd slept for two months straight at a later time. "But I'm not sure how it happened. One minute, I'm arguing with another student in the library, and the next, I'm waking up in the wrong time."

Dumbledore held up a thin gold chain, from which dangled a tiny hourglass. Hermione remembered the tinkle of breaking glass when Blaise Zabini had hit her, but was surprised to see that the hourglass itself was undamaged. The miniscule grains of sand once housed by the hourglass were, however, missing. The hourglass was whole and undamaged, but completely empty.

"You were wearing this when some of our students found you among the shelves," he explained. Hermione took the empty Time Turner, her mouth open slightly in surprise. "I am a man of extraordinary knowledge and vast experience, my dear. I have seen the world over, met witches, wizards, and Muggles of all types. I know more than is even expected of someone of my age and status." He sighed heavily. "But I have never before seen a Time Turner without its Time Sand. It's not supposed to be possible."

"It was given to me when I was thirteen," Hermione told him, though he asked for no explanation. "I was taking far too many courses, you see, and one of my mentors requisitioned a Time Turner so that I might be in two, even three places at once."

She hesitated, her throat tightening uncomfortably. "I was supposed to return it at the end of the school year, sir. Instead, I made a counterfeit and turned that one in instead. My best friends are prone to danger, sir, and I thought it prudent to have it on hand, in case something terrible were to happen."

Dumbledore listened without interrupting, and Hermione found herself babbling.

"No one knew I had it, sir, not even my friends. I haven't even used it since that school year, but I've also never gone anywhere without it. I thought I could use it to save them, sir." She was nearly in tears, now. "I couldn't let anything happen to them. Never. Not ever. And if that makes me a criminal or a terrible person, to have lied and kept it all these years, then so be it. I can't, I won't feel guilty for wanting to keep them safe."

Finally, she was out of words, and the back of her throat was sore from holding back the hot tears that still threatened to spill at any moment. Dumbledore continued to watch her placidly.

"Wanting to save your friends at any cost is an admirable thing," he told her finally. "Loyalty in hardship is a wonderful, wonderful thing."

Hermione pulled in a deep breath. "But what do I do now, sir? I don't belong here, and my friends need me."

Dumbledore sighed heavily, his expression downcast. "Right now, my dear, I know nearly nothing about you and the time from which you come. And that is the way it must remain. I cannot know your real name, I cannot know what is to come, and I cannot help you find your way home."

"But sir-"

"You know it must be this way, young lady. I recognize that you've a nearly unparalleled intellect, and you thus know it cannot be any other way. If you are to find a way to return to your home, your real home, you must do so yourself."

Hermione swallowed back a cry of despair. "Understood, sir. If you were to help me, you might end up with knowledge of the future, and that would devestate the timeline." She gave a wry little laugh. "I read that, once."

Dumbledore smiled down at her, proud. "Precisely."

She nodded absently, staring down at her hands without really seeing them. She was alone in this. Dumbledore was absolutely right, and she couldn't let herself drown in sorrow. She was strong, and she had work to do.

"Now," the wizard was saying, "I need for you to decide what you'd like to do in the interim. I will give you no suggestions and will not attempt to sway your choices."

Hermione thought quickly. In her own time, she would be preparing with Harry and Ron to hunt down and destroy Lord Voldemort's remaining Horcruxes, forgoing the final year of her magical education in order to do so. If she was stuck here in the year 1977, with no forseeable journey home, she would take advantage of the opportunity ahead of her.

"My name is Hermione Baker," she told Dumbledore, taking the last name of her childhood best friend in her haste. "I am here as a seventh year Gryffindor student after being previously tutored at home."

Dumbledore smiled at her. "Very good," he told her, delighted. "I shall have another bed added to the girls' dormitory and alert the other instructors of your presence this term." He stood, and with another wave of his wand, vanished away the purple armchair.

When he was nearly at the door, he turned to face her, sadness now apparent on his kind, wizened face. "I am truly sorry, Miss Baker," he told her. "To be separated from one's friends and family is a sorrow, and to be alone in your difficult endeavor is truly a tragedy. Please know that I take no pleasure in leaving such a task up to you, alone. My fear is for the fabric of reality, and that my assistance will cause you nothing but hardship and danger." His voice seemed tight. "I wish you the greatest of luck, Hermione Baker. Truly, the greatest of luck."

As the doors shut behind him, Hermione could no longer hold back the tears she'd been swallowing. As a bookworm and know-it-all, she'd felt lonely before, but that was nothing compared to what she felt in that very moment.

She gripped the empty Time Turner in her fist, vowing not to stop until she found a way to return to Harry and Ron. They needed her, and she needed them. Until then, she would do what she did best - she would _learn_.


	3. Chapter Three

**2 September 2014**

**I own nothing that you recognize from the Harry Potter universe.**

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_"Not even seventeen and fully alone," sighed Helene sadly, pushing her gelatin dessert around in its bowl with her spoon. "That's terribly sad."_

_Hermione murmured her agreement as she removed the dinner plates from the tray on her mother's lap._

_"Is this story going to be all sad?" Helene wondered, looking up at her daughter. "Because if it is, I'm not sure I want to listen to the rest."_

_"No, it's not all sad," Hermione reassured her mother. "Remember, sometimes a journey has to get harder before it gets better. You taught me that."_

_Helene raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Did I? Well, I'm obviously very wise, so I suppose you should carry on with the story."_

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Hermione spent the majority of the next three weeks laying in her same bed in the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey ruled over her life with an iron fist, but Hermione didn't put up much of a fight.

Apparently, traveling into the past twenty-odd years took a real toll on the body.

With just one week left until September the first and the start of term, Madam Pomfrey woke Hermione and pointed to a trunk sitting at the foot of her bed.

"Left for you by the Headmaster," the hospital matron told Hermione. "You're healthy enough to leave, now, so he wanted me to tell you that the castle, grounds, and village of Hogsmeade are yours to visit, now." Madam Pomfrey sniffed lightly, and Hermione tore her puzzled gaze from the trunk to look up at her.

"Are you alright?" Hermione asked hesitantly, and the woman turned away quickly, busying herself with the pitcher and bowl on Hermione's bedside table.

"I'll be fine," Madam Pomfrey sighed, sniffing again. "It's just...I'm always so lonely in here, and it's going to be lonely again when you're gone."

Hermione's heart swelled, and she stood carefully, embracing the hospital matron. Madam Pomfrey stiffened for a moment with surprise, but returned the hug gladly.

"I will be back around to visit," Hermione promised. "You have been so kind to me this summer, and I'll miss you when I'm gone, too."

Madam Pomfrey pulled in a deep breath and smiled when they released each other. "I'm going to hold you to that," she told Hermione sternly, and they both laughed.

Later that afternoon, dressed in normal clothes once again, Hermione made her way up to the Gryffindor common room, the trunk left by Dumbledore floating lightly along behind her. She was comforted to see that the portrait of the Fat Lady hung over the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.

"Password?" the Fat Lady asked politely, her hands folded daintily over one another atop her lap.

"Dragon liver," Hermione replied, repeating what Madam Pomfrey had told her as she left the Hospital Wing.

The Fat Lady smiled, and her portrait swung forward, allowing Hermione entrance.

As she stepped through the portrait hole and into the common room, Hermione noted to herself that not much would change in twenty years' time. A blazing fire still roared in the enormous stone fireplace, and the dozen or so squashy armchairs still occupied the space before it.

The staircase leading up to the girls' dormitories still housed the painting of Hilda the Haglike, who still sighed unhappily in her frame when Hermione passed. She made her way to the room meant for the seventh year Gryffindor girls, and paused, leaning against the door.

She was meant to be with Harry and Ron, now. She was meant to be out in the world with them, hunting Voldemort's Horcruxes and ending the dark wizard's reign of terror. What would they do without her? Harry and Ron were both good wizards and even better men, but what would they do if-

The door suddenly swung open, and Hermione hit the ground.

"What the-" came a voice from above her, and Hermione looked up to see a face nearly obscured by a large quantity of long, shiny red hair peering down at her. "What in Merlin's name are you doing, lurking at the door?"

Hermione grunted as she hoisted herself to a sitting position and then used the door frame to pull herself to stand. "I wasn't lurking," she informed the girl haughtily. "I was having a moment of self-pity, if that's alright with you."

"Well, if that's what that was, then you're in the right place," the girl told her dryly, an eyebrow raised. "We welcome that kind of despair and self-loathing here." She stuck out her hand, and Hermion took and shook it. "Lily Evans, at your service."

Hermione froze, her mouth open slightly as she took a real look at the girl. Petite and with hair that was a deep and beautiful red, not quite like the bright, flaming locks Ginny had. Her nose was small and straight, and everyone was exactly right - Harry had gotten his bright green, almond-shaped eyes from his mother. Lily's were a perfect copy of Harry's, and that shocked her more than anything else.

"Er, can I have my hand back?"

Hermione jolted back to herself, and quickly released Lily's hand. "Sorry," she breathed, clearing her throat and straightening her back. "I'm Hermione Baker."

Lily smiled kindly. "Dumbledore told me you'd be joining us this year. Are you feeling better?"

Hermione nodded absently, still absorbing the fact that Harry's mother was standing before her. "Definitely."

"Good. The boys were worried when they found you in the library at the end of last term. Peter completely lost his head. Thought you were dead, he did."

"Peter?" Hermione wondered, her hand moving to her throat, where her empty Time Turner lay beneath her shirt.

Lily nodded. "Peter Pettigrew. He's never been particularly stable, but even Remus, the calmest of the lot, was upset about you when they shut you away in the Hospital Wing." Lily sighed, smiling when she mistook the anxiety on Hermione's face for blind confusion. "Sorry, I know you haven't a clue who I'm talking about. The four of them who found you, they're seventh year Gryffindor boys this year, so you'll meet them soon enough."

"OY, LILY-FLOWER!" came a shout from down the stairwell. "HURRY IT UP, WILL YOU? I'M BORED."

Lily's eyes narrowed, and she bellowed back, "CALM YOUR SHORTS, IDIOT, I'M BUSY."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, and Lily shrugged. "That'll be the Head Boy," she told Hermione in explanation. "He's a right pain in the ass, especially when his mates aren't around. Turns into a child, he does. We're supposed to be here early to learn more about the school and our Head duties, but all we've done so far is find the kitchens." She sighed. "Get your trunk, I'll show you your bed."

Hermione dragged her trunk into the room, and Lily pointed at the bed nearest the big window at the end of the room. "That'll be yours. I'm the next one over, and the two on the other side belong to Alice and Stella. They'll be along with the train in a week."

Dropping her trunk at the end of the bed, Hermione dropped to sit on it, looking around. It was not unlike the dormitory she had once shared with Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown, something that made her feel homesick, even though she was here at Hogwarts. It seemed just a place, especially without Harry and Ron.

"LILY FLOWER! COME ON, I'M DYING DOWN HERE!"

Hermione and Lily exchanged glances, Hermione already exasperated by the voice

"I'd better go figure out what he wants," Lily sighed, showing no signs of actually heading for the door. "Otherwise, I think he'll just shout all afternoon."

Hermione murmured noncommitally, smiling when she saw Lily roll her eyes again. "Have you got a copy of _Hogwarts, A History_ I could borrow? I think I've left mine."

Lily nodded, rummaging through her own trunk and tossing Hermione a worn copy of the book. "Keep it," she told Hermione. "I got a new one for my birthday last March, and I've no idea why I keep carting around two copies."

They could hear singing from below, then, and Lily rolled her eyes again.

She headed for the door then, and as she made her way down the stairs, Hermione heard her shout, "I'M COMING, POTTER, SHUT THE HELL UP."

Hermione froze for the second time that afternoon, and a split second later, she was hurtling down the stairs behind Lily.

When she reached the bottom, she saw a boy standing in the middle of the common room as Lily approached him. Merlin, Harry really was just like his father. The same tall, thin stature, the same untidy black hair, the same long, straight nose. There was an honest and outward geniality that James exuded that Harry had always lacked, though. Perhaps it had something to do with growing up without one's parents.

"Hermione, glad to see you up and about," James Potter told her with a smile. "You gave us a scare last term, you did."

"You alright, Hermione?" Lily wondered, walking to Hermione and taking her arm. "You look awful."

Hermione nodded. "I'll be fine," she told the girl weakly, clearing her throat. "I'm fine. Just thought of something..." She shook her head, pulling in a deep breath. "It's nothing, sorry."

"In that case, I'm James Potter," Harry's father told her, shaking Hermione's hand.

"A pleasure to meet you," Hermione told him in return, doing her best to keep her voice level and her hand from trembling.

Lily peered around at Hermione, watching her carefully. "Are you sure you're going to be alright?"

Hermione waved her off, laughing lightly. "Just getting my bearings," she assured Lily. "I'll be fine."

"You can come on patrol with us," Lily offered. "We're just getting our pattern for our rounds on schedule. If you'd like, you can come along, as well."

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, and then saw the look on James's face. His eyes had gone wide, and he was shaking his head minutely from side to side out of Lily's peripheral vision. "Er, I think I'll just go up and read a bit," she informed Lily. "Thanks, though. Maybe next time."

The look of satisfied relief on James's face now was comical, and Hermione bit her lip to keep from laughing as Lily turned toward the portrait hole exit. 'Thank you,' he mouthed before turning to follow Lily.

"Shouldn't be too late tonight," Lily called over her shoulder. "See you later."

Hermione smiled to herself as she headed back up the stairs to the girls' dormitories. She had known from Harry's accidental trip through Snape's memories during their fifth year that James was already sweet on Lily, but it was entertaining to see that Lily was still resistant to his charms.

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During her schooling, Hermione had only ever heard good things about Lily Potter, nee Evans. She was still fairly surprised when she realized that she and Lily had become close during the week that preceded the arrival of the Hogwarts Express at the school.

Lily's brightness and intelligence was surpassed only by her extraordinary kindness. Hermione's vague answers regarding her family and her past obviously did not satisfy Lily's innate curiosity, but Lily did not press further, to Hermione's great relief.

On September the first, the girls were eating breakfast at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, giggling as they read the Daily Prophet.

"What's so funny?" wondered James, dropping into a seat across the table from the girls and pulling toward him every dish in sight.

Lily snorted. "There's a dingbat editorial writer for the Prophet who is of the opinion that the position of Minister of Magic should be only held by men. He seems to think witches are too fragile to give the job the true strength it requires."

"Well, that's complete bullocks," James decided with a full mouth, shoveling eggs and bacon into his mouth as he poured honey onto his porridge. "Anyone knows that either of you two or Stella would have the Ministry in shape in a snap, better than the complete dunderheads who've had the job recently."

The flattery Hermione felt at the compliment on her character came second in that moment to the disgust she felt as she watched James consume his breakfast.

"I had a friend like you, once," she informed him. "Only I think you have worse table manners than Ron ever did."

Lily looked up from the Daily Prophet, giving James a cursory glance. "This is nothing, compared to what you'll be meeting today."

Hermione's eyes widened. "It gets worse?!"

"Absolutely," James replied, then throwing back his goblet of orange juice. "It's always good to remember that it gets worse than me, Lily-flower. Go out with me, and you'll never be quite as disappointed in my table manners than you would with others."

"That is excellent, sound reasoning, Potter," Lily returned in an even tone, not looking up from her paper. "Never in a million years."

James grinned despite the rejection, and looked delightedly to Hermione. "Didn't even call me a name that time, Hermione. I think I'm finally wearing her down."

"Big-headed idiot," Lily muttered, rolling her eyes.

Still, James's smile remained, and Hermione felt herself give a tiny smile as well.

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James and Lily were in the Entrance Hall to greet the students that evening as they returned to the castle, and Hermione joined the flood into the Great Hall after them, sitting near the far end of the Gryffindor Table.

As Professor McGonagall began the Sorting of the first year students, Lily slid into the seat beside Hermione, another girl dropping down on Lily's other side.

"Stella Craven," Lily told Hermione in an undertone, and Hermione reached over Lily's plate to shake hands with a slim girl whose curly hair was a dense cloud of deep brown around her head.

"Pleasure to meet you," Stella whispered, smiling warmly. "Lily's told me about you. Says you're more fun than Alice."

Hermione raised an eyebrow, looking to Lily.

Lily shrugged. "Alice isn't as much fun as she used to be, since she and Frank hooked up."

Dumbledore welcomed the students and gave his customary pre-term speech as soon as the last first-year student had been Sorted. Hermione had asked him not to announce her presence to the entire school, preferring anonymity.

Of course, she also didn't know how long she would be here, with these people. In the time she hadn't spent with Lily and James, Hermione had done a great deal of research in the library. It had been a comforting thought, that the answer to her problems might be found among the books. Her precious books had never failed her, and she had a stubborn faith that they wouldn't fail her now.

"Have you got a subject you're really good at?" Stella asked as they headed up to Gryffindor Tower after dinner.

Hermione shrugged, and Lily laughed. "Stells, that's her way of being humble. Hermione's good at everything."

"Am not," Hermione muttered, embarrassed. "I tried Divination, once. It was horrific."

"Divination's a crack magic and has no place in school," Stella informed her.

Lily nodded her agreement. "I don't know why Dumbledore insists on keeping it as a subject. He knows it's useless, but year after year, there's always a set of third years that think they're going to be able to tell the future by staring at a crystal ball or a lump of soggy tea leaves."

"True Seers are rare, and they're born, not taught," Hermione sighed. "Thank Merlin I'm not alone in this."

Stella and Lily smiled at her as they all joined up again inside the Gryffindor common room after clambering through the portrait hole. "You're not alone," Stella assured her.

"You'll never be alone, so long as you don't want to be," Lily told her kindly. "That's what we're here for."

That night, Hermione felt a confused kind of warmth. These girls barely knew her, but they had declared to be forever there for her and with her.

She never expected to feel this way again. Not after having Harry and Ron in her life.

It warmed Hermione's heart and simultaneously tightened her chest. She missed her boys.


End file.
